


When Mountains Crumble to the Sea

by forgotmyline



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Trespasser, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgotmyline/pseuds/forgotmyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen waits by the eluvian for the Inquisitor to return, letting his worries get the best of him, wondering if this time will finally be the mission that takes her from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Mountains Crumble to the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katelai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katelai/gifts).



His pacing is relentless, he knows, the endless back and forth in this confined space driving both him and the men standing guard mad. He can't help it though. He's wound up while he waits here for her to return, stress and tension coiled tight within his body, pent up worry and fear needing to escape somehow.

 _She will be fine_ , he tells himself, because she always has been before and he needs the reassurance, even if it does come from his own thoughts.

What if, though? She saved the world once already, and came back to him after, but what if the Maker doesn’t see fit to give her back once again? What if this is the mission that finally steals her from him?

The doubts gnaw at him, raw and angry. Back and forth again, arms crossed tight over his chest, head down while he contemplates everything that could go wrong.

He doesn’t hear anyone approach, but he feels a palm lightly touch his shoulder. It's not her, he knows, and he nearly snaps until he sees that it is Leliana, his friend and hers. Worry creases the spymaster’s brow, both for him and his wife he thinks, because she cares for them both deeply.

“You must rest, Cullen. The Inquisitor would not want you to wear yourself out like this, and she may have need of you when she returns.”

He nods, knowing she is right. He will not leave this room, but there is a chair facing the eluvian, that damned mirror, and he supposes it won't hurt to sit for awhile.

Leliana sighs, but this is the best he can do right now. “I need to be here when she returns.”

His voice is hoarse, a plaintive whisper that sounds so unlike his usual self, but Leliana just nods before leaving.

Time passes strangely as he waits and he is no longer sure how many hours it's been since he watched his wife of less than a week disappear through the mirror to Maker knows where, to do Maker knows what.

Something is shaking and he is surprised when he looks down and sees that it is his leg. He can't sit anymore, nearly upends the chair in his haste to be standing.

A ripple, he thinks, in the glass of the eluvian. Unable to move now, he just stares, waiting for her, hopeful despite his misgivings and doubts. She doesn't step through though, not first. Dorian is here, and though he usually likes the mage, his friend, he wants to throttle him simply because of who he is not.

The Iron Bull follows, a bundle of cloths in his hands. He doesn't spare the moment it would take to examine what is in Bull’s arms, just cranes his neck to see behind the mountain of a qunari.

Cassandra, bringing up the rear. “I’m sorry, Commander, but…”

He doesn't hear the rest of her words because he follows her line of sight to the bundle in Bull’s arms. He hears the rushing of blood in his ears, someone's heart beating so loud he thinks it will burst forth from their chest. His heart, he realizes, and his stomach begins to churn. _Hold it together, Rutherford_ , he admonishes himself.

Not a bunch of rags as he had thought. His wife, eyes closed tight to the world, hair loose, tangled, wild in a way that she would absolutely hate. Her clothing is torn in several places, smudged with dirt and ash, and covered in blood.

It's the blood that nearly undoes him because surely someone could not survive losing that much. Time stops for a moment as he contemplates what this means, what life without her means, but not for long.

The world comes back, not slowly in drips and drabs, but a mad rush of sound and color and smell. He is forced to focus now, and it is almost too much to bear. Then he notices something he missed in his grief, his shock. It is almost imperceptible, but there is _movement_ coming from his wife, a shallow rise and fall of her chest.

He wants to fall to his knees and praise the Maker, thank him for bringing her back to him once more. Things to be done though. Dorian has taken charge, issuing orders to the guards. Healers are needed, plans are made to convene in her chambers, _their_ chambers.

Bull starts to move, but this should be his job. It's not that he isn't grateful - he is, so very much. He’s always had some reservations about Bull, mostly because he is Ben-Hassrath, but it's difficult to remember that now. Bull carries his wife with such care and gentleness and he knows that, Ben-Hassrath or not, the qunari would kill to protect his wife.

He gathers her into his own arms, just now noticing her left hand. The mark is gone, its eery green light absent from her palm and he doesn't know what to make of that. Her arm though… shriveled and blackened along her veins, as if whatever had removed the mark had torn it from her body, leaving destruction in its wake both inside and out.

He doesn't remember the walk to their room, but he is here, placing her in their bed, removing her shirt so that the healers have access to her arm. It is her worst injury by far, the one that must be dealt with first. It’s spreading, nearly at her elbow now. Had the mark been that high? It had been creeping further up as of late, but this… this seems like it is too far.

The healer examines the arm closely, and he isn’t sure he likes the expression on her face. A slight frown, not really enough to give anything away. He starts to pace again, but the room feels too crowded. Cassandra is here, in spite of the many duties she should be attending to as the Divine. Dorian, too, and Leliana. He can hear the rest of their friends just outside the doors and he wants to scream, to rage, to tell them all to leave them alone so he can just be there with her, not have to worry about everyone else. They are just concerned, he knows, for they all love her nearly as much as he does. It softens his anger, remembering this, remembering all the ways they care for her. Cassandra, trading romance novels back and forth with her. Dorian and their late night talks about magical history. Leliana plotting with her against Josie to get those little fainting goats into Skyhold, to keep as pets of all things. Everyone outside that door, too, waiting to hear news of her health… they have all been there for her, _with_ her through everything, this whole damn mess and the world almost breaking. They deserve to be near her no less than he does.

The healer looks up, her expression grave, and he knows that it can not possibly be good news that she bears. She beckons him to his wife’s side, pointing to the blackness spreading. “It’s not going to stop, I fear. We can take the arm,” she makes a motion across, just below the elbow, “and that might work. There is no guarantee, though, Commander. And the removal itself might take her if infection sets in.”

She is looking to him for an answer, a decision, not that there is much of one. Of course he will tell her to do it because there is no other choice. He can’t live in a world in which she ceases to exist, so he will grasp at any chance to save her. He nods, tells her to go ahead.

The healer leaves then, to get tools, he assumes, and other healers, and the faces of their friends mirror the way he feels. Devastation. Grief. A profound sense of loss. And above all, fear. Dorian looks as if he might be ill, the pallor of his face taking on a decidedly green tint, and Cassandra’s look is tinged with anger, her face and neck flushed a bright red and her lips set in a tight line. Leliana leaves on the heels of the healer, telling them that she will inform the rest of their group.  

The healer comes back, two others following her with various instruments. Bandages, potions, ointments. He swallows fear when he sees the saw and it hits him then, the reality of what is about to happen. The healer says something and both Dorian and Cassandra leave the room, the door closing behind them with a gentle click. He moves to the other side of the bed, taking up her right hand and holding it tight within his own. The healer looks at him and he all but dares her to kick him out with the way he looks at her. She shakes her head and sighs. “This will be unpleasant, Commander, and messy. I have a sleeping draught to try to keep her from waking, but the pain might overcome that.”

“I… I should be here. She is my wife and she needs me. Better, or worse. What kind of person would I be if I left now?”

He is whispering, low, hoarse, but the healer hears him anyway. Her assistants keep busy, placing cloths over a large table that had been moved in here at some point. “Then you will make yourself useful. Carry your wife to that table,” she hesitates briefly before she issues more commands. “She will need to be tied down, Commander. Can you tie a good, strong knot?”

Maker’s breath. He understands it on a more rational level, but the baser, less rational part of his mind balks at the idea of restraining her so. He nods though, picking her up and placing her on the table gingerly. Deep breath in, slow breath out. He takes strips of cloth from one of the assistants, tying them around his wife’s shoulders, her hips, and her legs. He fears they might be too tight, but he fears her movements and what they could do more.

“Good Commander. If she wakes and starts to move, I will need you to hold her down, lest we do more damage than necessary.”

He feels his face drain of color and heat, but he will do whatever it takes to keep his wife safe, even if it is from herself.

~~~~~

It goes well, or as well as can be expected. She does not wake and the cut is clean, quickly made and sealed with heat from the healer’s magic. He waits by her side, sits in a chair next to their bed because he fears disturbing her, causing more pain, making everything worse somehow, instead of better. He lets his mind wander while she sleeps, her breathing soft, slow, so unlike her usual sleeping habits. She usually snores, tiny, quiet little snores that always remind him of the puppies they had at his family home when he was young. She hardly moves, straight, flat on her back, when she would usually be all over the bed, limbs akimbo, as much of her body on him as on the bed. It makes his heart ache, to see her so reduced. It’s not even about her arm, although his heart breaks for that loss, too. She is so much paler than he is used to, her freckles more prominent now that her face is no longer quite so sun-kissed.

It’s only been a few days since their marriage, quiet and unassuming, a lovely little thing thrown together by their friends to celebrate their union. Someone had managed to find a white dress, even on such short notice, and she’d made a crude joke about whether she really ought to wear it, considering how very impure she was after all the things they had done with and to each other. He had blushed, not because he was ashamed, but because he wasn’t used to being so open about such things.

Her openness is one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place, her willingness to put herself out there if it meant she might be able to make a new friend. So unlike himself, guarded as he was. He had needed that after everything that had happened, needed that hard shell to protect himself, but she had never given up, no matter how many times he’d rebuffed her. Then she had nearly died trying to save them all at Haven. How could he resist after that? So he let her in, let his shell crack just the tiniest bit to let her in, only her because after that, he knew that she would never hurt him. She did though, every time she left, every time he was left at Skyhold while she threw herself into danger.

She stirs then, interrupting his thoughts. A small movement, a rustle of her blankets, and a low groan, and then she opens her eyes, emerald and blurred with tears. “Cullen?”

“I’m right here, my love.”

She nods and takes stock of herself and her injuries, her gaze traveling down her torso and to her legs. He knows the exact moment when she realizes what they had to do to save her, that she is missing a piece of herself, quite literally. She moves her left arm up as if to push her hair from her face, but there is nothing.

Her quiet wail is what finally does him in, breaks him apart, because in that moment there is nothing he can do to make her hurt stop or even lessen it. Her tears are flowing freely now, and he climbs into bed next to her so that he can at least try to give her some comfort. He wipes her tears away before trying to explain. “Bull explained what happened in the fade, about the anchor and Solas. Whatever he did, it took the mark away, but it wasn’t enough. It was ripped from you and something was spreading like an infection. It… it was going to kill you, travel up your arm to your heart or your brain or some other important part of you, so the healer suggested we… we remove the lower half of your arm. I gave her the alright… I thought… I thought that you would have made that same choice. I’m sorry, love. More sorry than I have words for.”

His own tears are falling now, down his cheeks and then drip, drip, drip onto his lap. She tugs his shirt with her good hand, signaling a need to have him closer. It’s like he can breathe again after being deprived of air, knowing that she still needs him, wants him after this. He hadn’t even realized that he was afraid of that, that she might not. He pulls her close, burying his face in her curls, inhaling her scent. “Of course I would have. I even thought it might be necessary, before we came back through. It’s just… knowing a thing might be necessary is not quite the same as being faced with the reality of that same thing.”

She scoots even closer, trying to sit in his lap, but can’t get the leverage she needs. He pulls her up, gently so as not to disturb her other injuries. They are surprisingly minor, all things considered. Bruising, a few cuts, but no broken bones, no head injuries, nothing besides her arm to cause any real worry.

They sit in each other's arms, silent for several moments.

A knock on the door interrupts them, and Cullen wants to be angry, but he is just too weary. He knows that his wife has duties, but Maker’s breath, can’t everyone just leave them alone for a few damn moments? Surely, she has given enough to the Inquisition, to _Thedas,_ and deserves a break after having lost a Maker’s damned limb…

And yet…

And yet…

He knows that the world has not stopped just because they wish for some privacy, some time to heal the emotional wounds as much as the physical. And he knows that she will wish to be back to her duties as soon as possible, damn her, because that’s just how she is.

She moves her head from his shoulder, cursing under her breath before calling out, “Come in.”

~~~~~

“Cullen, I…”

Her voice is quiet, and he is sure that he can hear the tears that are seconds away from falling. He turns to her, his heart fracturing as he realizes her predicament. He curses, berating himself silently for not anticipating this particular need. She has not yet gotten used to her missing arm, and she can not dress and undress herself properly.

His steps are swift as he goes to her side. He wants nothing more than to take her into his arms, hold her until the hurt stops, but that is not what she needs from him now. He is the only one who gets to see her like this, vulnerable, afraid. But she has a council meeting to get to, one that will determine the fate of the Inquisition and all its members, and she needs to know that he believes that she can do it. And the best way he knows to do that is to help without making a fuss about it. So he does.

She is in one of his tunics, worn cotton grown soft with age. She likes it, she says, because it smells like him, and when they are apart because of their various duties, it sort of, almost, maybe if she doesn’t think too much about it feels like she is cocooned in his embrace. He likes it because it satisfies some sort of baser instinct in him, the one that growls, _mine_ , whenever he sees her. It doesn’t hurt that it only just covers her glorious bottom, leaving her long legs completely bare. And if he starts thinking about how her breasts strain against the thin fabric, how he can just make out the rosy peaks beneath it… well, he will likely never get any work done.

She has a shirt clenched in her fist by its collar, and he tugs it away, placing it on their bed with the rest of her uniform. She hates it, but knows how regal she looks in it. Red is truly her color, though she says it sometimes reminds her of all the blood she’s had to shed. He knows the feeling, often wonders if he’ll ever stop seeing it on his hands.

The ties at the neck of the shirt are already loose, so he only needs to pull it up and over her body. He is, perhaps, more careful than usual when it is time to take the sleeves off, but he tries not to let it show. Once off, she stands before him in just her smallclothes, arms crossed as best she can manage over her chest. He does not know why she hides from him now - it’s not as if he hasn’t seen her naked body, worshiped it with his own. Oh, but… He sees in her eyes a mix of fear and self consciousness, as if she is unsure that he will still find her attractive. He tugs her arms away from her chest, raking his eyes up and down her body in a way that is completely unmistakeable, even going so far as to dart his tongue out to lick his lips. She flushes bright pink, a fully body blush that has always affected him. He steps closer, invading her personal space, giving her just a moment to step back if she chooses to. She doesn’t and he pulls her face close to his own. He tries to be delicate, not wanting to hurt her already bruised body, but she is hungry for him, and he can’t help but respond in kind.

He can almost taste the desperation in her kiss, the fear, the anger, the hurt, and he wants it all. He wants to take it from her, take it all upon himself if it means stopping her pain. She reaches up, her hand tangled in his hair, squeezing tight and pulling him closer, as if she means to swallow him whole. And he would let her, Maker, he would give her anything she asked.

When she pulls away, he is shocked at the abruptness. They stand before each other, her dazed expression matching what he feels. There is… tension between them, thick and troubling, as if they are unsure how to be together anymore. He doesn’t know what to do with this, but then she clears her throat, tilting her head and flashing him a familiar, wry grin. It is enough, and he can almost feel the tension dissipate. He pulls her in again, a quick embrace and a light kiss on the top of her head.

Dressing her is not easy, for either of them. Pants first. She tries to help as best she can, but ends up tumbling backwards onto the bed. She is not used to asking for help, he knows. Shirt next, neither of them looking at the sleeve hanging limply from what remains of her arm, their avoidance almost comical in its obviousness. Jacket, then those blasted sashes, followed by tall boots. He looks at her to make sure everything is in place, but that damned sleeve... He ponders for a moment before remembering a basket of mending a servant had left behind at some point. He rummages through, sighing in relief when he finds a box of pins.

He folds the sleeve of both her jacket and shirt, careful, slow, almost methodical, before pinning the folded end up. It is not ideal. Attention will be drawn to her missing limb, but it is still better than letting it hang.

“There now,” he says, running his hands up to her shoulders, squeezing lightly before he moves them up her neck to cup her face, his touch featherlight as if she might break.

He watches the vulnerability leave her as she stands taller, throwing her shoulders back, lifting her head, her expression carefully schooled into what he always thinks of as her Inquisitor face. He drops his hands when she gives him a quick flash of teeth. He has missed her smile more than he thought - has it really only been a few days since he last saw it?

“Let’s go, my love,” she commands, sounding more and more like her usual self, like the woman who saved the world. “Let’s show those bastards that we are the Inquisition and they do not get to tell us what to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born from a conversation with the lovely Ms. Katelai, in which she mentioned wanting a fic from Cullen's point of view during Trespasser when he is left behind while the Inquisitor goes through the eluvian. I intentionally left the Inquisitor herself vague, so readers can imagine their own Inquisitor. And as a final note, I did fudge some stuff with regards to the Inquisitor's arm being removed. I know Patrick Weekes stated that Solas removed both the mark and the Inquisitor's arm, but that never really sat well with me. After all, we see him walk away, with the Inquisitor's arm still there and glowing. Does it magically disintegrate? Does it shrivel up and, what, fall off? So I re-imagined it as Solas stopping the mark from spreading long enough for the Inquisitor to get back to the council and have it removed. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
